


Helpless

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Dry Sex, First Time, Hero Worship, M/M, Manipulation, Pain, Rough Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Have you forgotten your angel?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 19
Kudos: 101





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

> George Washington is the phantom. Alexander Hamilton is the beautiful prodigy who thoughtlessly adores him. I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent id fic.

For years, living in his meticulously constructed caverns beneath the opera house, Washington is content. He has the Opéra Populaire at his fingertips, a generous stipend from a confused but otherwise obliging theatre owner, and he has the music he is composing amid shadows all his own.

Then Alexander arrives, orphaned and quiet and sullen, to take up a place among the corps de ballet. A compelling child—nearly a man—but mediocre as a dancer. No particular talent that might pique the interest of a patron of the theatre.

Until Washington hears him sing.

There is something dangerous and desperate in the boy's unpracticed voice. A raw potential that grips Washington by his very soul, and he knows he cannot remain silent. Dangerous, to engage directly, and yet he can't resist. His music demands the finest instruments, and until this moment he had not believed he would ever find a worthy voice. Now he knows. It will take time—it will take _training_ —but Alexander possesses what he needs.

For a time, the music itself is his only preoccupation. He speaks to Alexander without showing his face, in the secret spaces between shows and rehearsals. There is plenty of silence in a building as vast as this, especially surrounding an antisocial orphan with nowhere else to go. The opportunities to approach and teach him are ample, even if it is strange that Alexander accepts the circumstance so readily.

The first time Alexander calls him 'angel', Washington cannot bring himself to answer.

When Monsieurs Andre and Firmin purchase the opera company, Washington has been teaching his improbable pupil for four years. Alexander has grown up, though Washington doubts he will ever cease to consider the young man 'his boy'. Even as he positions Alexander to adopt a starring role, through guile and deception and a hint of violence, a fierce protectiveness wars with the increasingly complicated attachment that has taken root in his chest.

He treasures the music itself above all else—and in this regard his pupil has soared to heights he never could have dreamed—but he is also a man of long-thwarted needs. Of desire. Of yearning for touch. And he can no longer deny that Alexander has grown beautiful.

Or that Washington's interest is as carnal as it is artistic.

Surely he cannot be blamed, then, for reacting with jealousy to the arrival of this horrible vicomte. John Laurens is not only a careless fop, trying to swoop in and steal the well-earned glory from beneath Alexander's feet. He is also pushy, and spoilt, and demanding—a supposed childhood friend—and yet Washington can _see_ the glint of less innocent affection behind the intruder's eyes. There is hunger in a gaze that goes unnoticed by Alexander's untouched and oblivious heart, as Laurens ignores every protest and announces they are going to dinner to celebrate.

It is clear even to Washington, hidden away in the shadows, that his boy does not want to go to dinner. Alexander has never been one to socialize willingly. And for all that he seems pleased at this reunion, his discomfort is palpable enough to make Washington's fists clench.

He waits until Laurens has departed the dressing room. Then, checking the mask that hides the scarred and deformed side of his face, he intervenes.

There is a helpless thrall in the way Alexander answers him, overriding the shock that should by all rights signal retreat when Washington makes himself _seen_. He knows, up until this moment, Alexander has not thought of him as flesh and blood. 'Angel' is neither a term of respect nor endearment, but the literal framework through which his boy comprehends him. And yet Alexander's clever mind adapts quickly to this new information. Exactly as Washington knew—or at least hoped—that it would.

After only a heartbeat, Alexander slips a hand into his and follows Washington through the mirror.

*

His boy sings for him. Washington urges more. Better. An avalanche of notes so exquisite they fill not just this sumptuous room, but the caverns in which it exists. Echoing and thrilling. In all their years of study and teaching, Washington has never felt like this.

He serenades Alexander. He offers up his own world. His secrets and dreams. Perhaps he gets carried away.

Perhaps he should not touch.

Yet somehow, as he puts rough hands on his guest, Alexander's responsiveness only encourages him. Quiet gasps, awe in his face, a willingness to be moved and manhandled so intimately. When Washington hurls him onto the bed, Alexander remains where he has been put with only a startled sound for protest.

Even in flickering candlelight, Alexander is beautiful. Long hair falls to his shoulders, dark and messy, and the white lines of his shirt are rumpled from both tonight's performance and the unexpected trip below ground. He is breathing hard, mouth ajar, eyes wide with feeling. Wonder in them, perhaps. Or fear.

Washington hovers over his boy, hands pressed to the mattress on either side of him. Blocking him in without conscious purpose, and yet all he wants is to get even closer.

"Are you scared?" he asks, impossibly soft.

And Alexander, face alight with guileless honesty, answers, "Completely terrified."

Washington jerks back at this admission, because he does not _want_ Alexander to be afraid of him. He has only ever wanted to teach him. And perhaps, more recently, to touch him. But he should have known. The ghost beneath the opera house cannot have this.

Before he can rise and retreat, Alexander's hands are there. Catching his arm, his shirt. Holding him. Keeping him close.

"Don't go," Alexander pleads.

Washington peers down into his boy's face, noting the hunger there with incredulity. There is no tension in Alexander's position across Washington's bed. He sprawls gracelessly atop the sheets, his head squashed into the pillows. And while they stare at each other like this for a very long time, Washington reads only trembling questions in the way Alexander continues to hold onto him.

He eases fully onto the bed himself. Moving slowly—he has no desire to spook his pupil—feeling far too _seen_ as Alexander's gaze tracks him greedily. Legs clad in soft black trousers part for him, and Washington slips between, covers the smaller body with his own. The trembling is more evident now, but no protest comes. Not even when Washington slides a hand into his hair and—cruelly—closes his fingers into a fist, forcing Alexander's head roughly back for the kiss Washington can no longer resist.

It is an ecstatic kiss. So much more than Washington has ever allowed himself to dream, and he moans against parted lips as Alexander accepts and submits.

A kiss will never be enough. Washington should have known before he touched his boy. He cannot let Alexander leave without taking more.

*

Alexander is a prideful creature, and if his angel had bothered to ask, he would not have admitted that no one has ever touched him like this. He would not have confessed this is his first kiss. But now, beneath the forceful attentions of the angel's mouth, he wonders if it would've mattered. There is desperation in the hands holding him—guiding him—and Alexander melts beneath them.

He is still terrified, but he also _burns_. Greedy for something he has no hope of articulating. He doesn't know precisely what he wants. He knows only that whatever it is, the want is quickly igniting into need.

Caught up in this whirlwind of unfamiliar desire, Alexander startles when he realizes those deft hands have opened his shirt and begun to unfasten his trousers. The kiss breaks, and his angel rises to kneel above him, hands stilling on Alexander's thighs. Even this slight movement is so graceful Alexander's heart twinges witnessing it.

There is eager stiffness in the space between his angel's hands—Alexander's prick tenting his trousers—and it's all he can do to remain quiet, instead of begging to be touched in new and unfamiliar ways. Somehow, he manages to find his voice and coax his tongue into forming syllables.

"Do you have a name?"

He is gawping up into the angel's face as he asks this, memorizing every detail in case this is his only opportunity. This cannot be real. A fever dream. Maybe he fainted from the excitement of his debut. And yet, whether or not this moment is real, there is no denying the man above him is human. No angel or apparition, but flesh and blood. Too hot and solid to be anything else.

He sees the elegant throat work in a hard swallow, sees a flicker of complicated expression on the visible half of the angel's face.

And then, as though tipped into action by the question, the angel averts his eyes and turns his attention toward stripping Alexander's clothing away. A gorgeous baritone belatedly answers, "George. My name is George." But there is an edge of shame in the admission. As though his angel does not believe he _deserves a name_.

"George," Alexander says, and inhales sharply at the burning gaze that finds and holds him.

"Say it again," his angel pleads.

" _George_ ," he repeats, and savors the shivery sigh he earns in answer.

A startled cry escapes him when his angel— _George_ —descends with almost violent suddenness. Alexander is naked now, and it seems utterly unfair that George remains completely clothed, from the crisp lines of his suit to the mysterious mask hiding half his face. But Alexander can't find it in himself to protest—can't find even the _breath_ to protest—as confident hands move over him, and new kisses cover his mouth and throat.

He can feel a hot nudge between his thighs, beneath smooth fabric—and then a moment later, the fabric is gone and the nudge is more surreal. Stiff and silky and rubbing against him. If he were not so thoroughly riled, perhaps he would fear whatever unknown trial comes next.

Alexander freezes when he feels a new sensation—a slick bluntness pressing not just between his thighs, but somewhere even more intimate—forcing forward, _inside him_ , in a way Alexander could not possibly have anticipated. It hurts. Oh _god_ , how it hurts. But the pain is also fascinating, and inexpressibly enticing, and Alexander spreads his legs wider instead of trying to escape.

The sound he makes as the intrusion keeps coming is high and breathless—a shattered gasp that's almost a sob—but his angel does not relent. Alexander clings to broad shoulders, fingers slipping along smooth fabric before he manages to get a more solid grip. He is not a fool. For all that he has no experience—has never considered such things as a sexual touch between men—he can reach his own conclusions.

The enormous member spreading and filling him _must_ be George's prick. Flesh and blood. His angel is only a man after all. And whatever sliver of betrayal Alexander might feel at realizing this—at being used in this carnal and intimate way by a soul he previously thought transcendent—such emotions cannot dislodge the ember of need in his own body.

He is being taken, yes, but he welcomes it. He _burns for it_. And as the length settles deeper inside him—slick but nowhere near slick enough—Alexander clings to his angel instead of pushing him away.

When George kisses him, a new stillness settles between them, and Alexander realizes—feels the way their bodies are pressed flush—recognizes that the entire length is seated inside him. The understanding turns his breath short and his skin hot. George holds him with inescapable hands, with the crushing weight of the body pinning and bearing Alexander into the mattress. The kiss lasts forever. It's not quite enough to distract him from the tantalizing hurt, or from the bulk of the body snug between his thighs.

Alexander has no explanation for the fact that, aching or not, he is desperate for more.

Perhaps George senses this restlessness, or perhaps it's something more selfish that inspires him to motion. Alexander does not care. He can't think. Can't ask for what he wants. He can only clutch at the bedsheets as George eases his hips back—as the painful heat inside him withdraws and then returns more forcefully—filling him with slow but inexorable possessiveness.

" _Fuck_ ," Alexander groans as the movement repeats, a rocking, rutting motion of measured length, ending once more with their bodies flush.

He tries to keep his eyes open. To remain watchful and take in everything, as his angel continues to claim him at this patient yet ceaseless pace. A little faster by degrees. Heedless of the tight ache, the way Alexander struggles to relax and receive each forward thrust.

But the crest of sensation is too much, and Alexander succumbs all too quickly to the demanding rhythm. His head tips back into the pillows and his eyes flutter shut, as he grabs and holds desperately on to his angel.

They move together like this for so long he loses track of time. He is aware of nothing beyond the pounding between his thighs, the muscular body on top of him, the mouth teasing along his chest and throat, the restless hands wandering all over him. He tries to meet the forceful thrusts, bends his knees to either side of George's powerful hips. His own hands slide curiously, almost guiltily along the intoxicating lines of his angel's body. They sneak over the silk of George's shirt, beneath the heavy suit jacket—trace the skin where soft trousers have slipped low on muscular thighs—quest higher to ghost along throat, jaw, face.

It is not willfulness that brings Alexander to touch the hard, smooth line of the mask. But once he feels it beneath his fingers, he can't resist. Curiosity mingles with heady arousal, and he manages to open his eyes as he tugs at the mask.

In the moment the covering comes away, George goes suddenly, dangerously still.

Alexander freezes, ashamed and caught-out and fascinated. He trembles. Still trapped beneath pinning weight. Still vividly aware of the tip of George's cock inside him. Still holding the mask in his hand as he stares up into the scarred and damaged face of an angel.

 _I'm sorry_ , he wants to say, but his voice is stuck in his throat. He reads incredulous betrayal in George's beautiful eyes, and there is violence in this stillness. A coil of anticipation, as though of a trap waiting to spring. Alexander swallows, and takes in the distorted skin. Like melted wax, or perhaps an open wound. It looks painful. If he could find his voice, he would ask to touch—or perhaps he would beg his angel to let him go.

It is not a credit to his character that he can't be sure which.

When the frozen moment shatters, it brings a new edge of pain. A hand closes hard on his wrist, grasping with such powerful strength that Alexander gasps and drops the mask. It clatters over the side of the bed, out of sight, and in the very next instant George snaps his hips forward with brutal force. A wounded cry claws its way from Alexander's throat at the unexpected agony, and his free hand clenches in the silk of George's sleeve as his eyes roll back in his head.

" _Damn you_ ," comes the vicious hiss in Alexander's ear, as any vestige of gentleness evaporates into a cruel new pace, fast and deep and inescapable. "You little _demon_. You prying Pandora, you—" This train of imprecations breaks off with a panting groan as George slams repeatedly into him, jolting Alexander on the bed, ravaging his already aching body.

"Please—" Alexander gasps, though he honestly doesn't know what he is begging for. There is a fever moving through him, an agony of too much sensation tearing him apart, and he _should_ want it to stop, but even now he is overcome. His wrist aches in George's grip, and he whimpers at an especially harsh thrust—sobs a second later when that relentless cock rams into him even harder.

His own arousal is a desperate thrum of energy, low in his belly, spreading along every nerve. The unforgiving assault is not enough to dissuade the pleasure at incidental friction along his own hard prick, and he wraps his legs around George's waist, clinging all the tighter as he rides out the storm.

It seems an eon before the storm breaks on the shore of Alexander's battered and shaken body.

He still has not spent, but he holds perfectly motionless when George's furnace-hot weight collapses on top of him with a shout of ecstasy. Even now that voice ignites a feeling like joy in Alexander's mind and heart, and he shivers. He is breathing hard. He hurts. The softening cock inside him is a cruel testament to the violence he has not quite finished enduring.

Cautiously—and not without discomfort, even in this small movement—he unhooks his heels and lets his legs fall from George's waist, bracketing his hips with sluggish exhaustion. He untwines his fingers from soft shirt fabric next, and holds his breath as George uses the grip on his wrist for leverage, pushing up just enough to meet Alexander's eyes.

Just enough to give him a real look at George's unobstructed face.

Perhaps it is deliberate, the way George remains inside him while asking Alexander in a low, devastated voice, "Is this what you wanted to see?"

Alexander cannot fathom what possesses him to answer, "Yes."

George shudders, eyes falling closed for an instant. His visage is both beautiful and ugly in the stark shadows of the cave. Alexander can't bring himself to look away. He is riveted. Hungry for things he cannot name, and more desperate than ever for a release from the arousal sill coursing beneath his skin.

"Please," he whispers, arching beneath the pinning weight. " _Please_ , angel. George. I need..." He doesn't finish. He does not know _what_ precisely he needs, only that his angel can give it to him. When he inadvertently clenches around the length inside him, the pain makes him flinch even as George groans aloud.

Then, recovering himself, George steadies above Alexander. Meeting his pleading gaze with a glint of challenge. "Can you truly dare to look?"

"I am already looking." Alexander is shocked at his own brazenness—more shocked than he has been at the lustful response of his body to all the blasphemous things his angel has done to him tonight.

And then—continuing to hold Alexander trapped with his eyes—George reaches for Alexander's cock and gives a deliberate stroke. Again Alexander's eyes roll back in his head, this on a rush of uncomplicated pleasure. God, he has never known anything so sinfully _good_. His own hand has never felt like this.

" _Please_ ," he repeats, barely keeping his eyes open as George strokes him again. A third time. Carrying him to unfamiliar heights, and distracting him so thoroughly Alexander barely notices that the softening presence inside him is turning rigid once more.

He spends with a cry, wild and shrill. The echo of it carries through the cave and back to his own ears, even as he sobs through the aftershocks of sensation and the coaxing of George's hand.

*

Washington's entire soul exalts at Alexander's sounds of ecstasy. Such an impossible creature, to find the heights of pleasure even after anger has driven Washington to use and hurt him.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise when Alexander passes out beneath his hands.

A better man would leave him to rest, but Washington has never tried to be good. He is hard again, still inside his boy, and he barely tries to resist the siren song of renewed satisfaction. Exhausted as Alexander is, he does not wake as Washington grips his thighs and spreads them wider—or as Washington fucks him again.

This time Washington tries to remain gentle. His anger is spent, and there is guilt in his chest alongside the knowledge that he hurt his boy unnecessarily. He was cruel. He should have stopped.

But it's too late to undo the violence that has already passed between them—and his guilt is not powerful enough to make him retreat unsated—so he remains. Rolling his hips at a more sedate pace. Rutting forward into the unconscious body beneath him. Even asleep—perhaps _especially_ asleep—Alexander is beautiful. Serenity touches smooth features, softening a brow that is habitually furrowed in thought.

Even in this moment—even in the midst of claiming his unconscious boy—a wave of covetous frustration breaks over Washington. He is painfully aware that, though Alexander is unmistakably his, Washington will not be able to keep him forever.

Alexander's light glows too brightly to be contained by the shadows of Washington's world.

When at last his second orgasm takes him, Washington withdraws with infinite care. It seems completely impossible that Alexander still has not woken, and yet he doesn't make a sound as Washington removes himself from the bed. He sleeps too deeply, and Washington can't take his eyes off the boy even as he cleans them both and then tucks his own cock away, setting his clothing to rights. A moment's consideration and he drapes his softest blanket over Alexander, covering his boy's nakedness against the chill.

Washington will not sleep. He collects the mask from the floor, but he cannot bear to put it back on. Instead he carries it to the small table beside his pipe organ and sets it down gingerly. Eventually he tears his eyes from the hateful thing and takes his place on the organ bench—finds the incomplete line of his newest composition. He cannot sleep, so he will work. If the continuing intrusion of a hard cock did not wake Alexander, the blare of the pipe organ is equally unlikely to break through that wall of wounded fatigue.

The music is always there. It is soothing. And it will remain in the morning, when Washington guides Alexander back to the opera house, where his career can at last take wing.

THE END


End file.
